


Love, Stretch

by Loser_Love



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Patty is his roommate, Stan has a butch old lesbian boss, Stretch is Stan's Nickname from Work, before chapter 2, florist and tattoo artist au, neither are neurotypical shut up, old men falling in love, they're not really old but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:08:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29671209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loser_Love/pseuds/Loser_Love
Summary: Stanley, the local florist, meets the owner of the new neighboring business, Shark Puppy Tattoos, Bill Denbrough. He always thought he was a little old for love, but Bill quickly made him realize he just hadn't met the right person yet.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	1. Daisies and Ink

Stanley combed back his curly mane of hair; it was getting long, almost enough length to pull into a bun. He made a mental note that later on in the week he’d have to ask Patty, his roommate, to trim it. He pulled out a set of bobby pins, using them to get a good hold on his hair so it wouldn’t slip back forward. Next, Stan checked the chain holding his glasses, ensuring it was fastened. All set.

“Stan we haven’t got all day for you to bring in that palette, y’know!” His boss, Sandy, called from inside the main area of the store. He sighed, irritated that she would never understand the process he went through with every minute task. The ginger meant no harm in it, but sometimes she really made no effort to understand him at all, or at least it felt like it. He leaned down, pulling at his work gloves firmly before lifting the small palette. He had gained some muscle over the course of working at the floral shop, nothing visible though, he still looked like the thin-framed twig he always was described as. Maybe it was more so endurance. “Right here, buddy!” Sandy exclaimed, clamoring behind to escort him towards the raised area in the greenhouse, gesturing wildly. 

“I can see, Sandy. Get out of my way, you’re distracting me I have to focus.” His tone was blunt, as it most often was. His boss was used to it and took a step back with no issue. He hefted it on to the display area and let out an exhale of a groan, leaning back to stretch. “You’re the man, Stretch,” The older woman proclaimed affectionately, patting his shoulder, “Go ‘head and take your lunch break, I can handle arranging.” Stan sighed heavily, he enjoyed arranging the most of the job, it was the most satisfying, not to mention half the time he went behind the woman’s back and changed her arrangements; Sandy always put too many of the same color together in her larger bouquets. However, he was famished. He clapped the gloves together and slid them off, hanging them on the nail near the greenhouse door, doing the same with his apron soon after. A hand painted plank that read Stan “Stretch” Uris was plastered affectionately above the small station.

“Don’t forget!” Sandy said, taking Stan’s arm gently in her palm, “The bouquet out front, take it to the new neighbors. Maybe they’ll give us discounts or something.” Right, the new neighbors. The building next door had been vacant for nearly a year, Stan had grown used to it being empty, quiet, everytime he passed it. It used to be a daycare, or something like that, Sandy rambled too much for Stan to ever remember the right details. He felt his hair shift as his boss pulled it back just slightly on his right side, placing a daisy gently behind his ear before shuffling in front of him, “And maybe look for a boyfriend, while you’re at it.” Stan pursed his lips and chuckled, slightly red in the face, “Sandy, we’ve talked about this.” “Stan you’re almost 40! Hell, you can get married now!” “I know both of those things,” he responded sternly, “I was at your wedding.” “You were the tallest flower boy I’ve ever laid eyes on.” “Well, yeah, didn’t we just address the fact I’m kinda old to be one?” Sandy waved her hand by the wrist and rolled her eyes, “Nonsense. Now, go have your break.” 

Stan rolled his eyes like he always did, grabbing the beautiful bouquet he had prepared with her earlier that morning. Accents of oranges and plums, with a shark-mouth-shaped vase, fit the aesthetic of the newly opened tattoo shop, it was called Shark Puppies, or something equally idiotic. He was already worked up at the thought of presenting a bunch of punk meat-heads with a bouquet of beautiful flowers they’d likely treat poorly or immediately throw away, leaving the vase as a gimmick-y pen holder. Deep breaths, Uris. “Making assumptions makes an ass of you and me,” he could hear Sandy scold, that’s exactly what she would’ve said if he heard what he was thinking. He realized he was standing outside of the shop door, seething in his assumptive silence, when someone tapped on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted, stepping aside, door handle in hand, “After you!” The young man simply laughed and waved it off awkwardly, walking inside, Stan followed. 

He stood on the welcome rug for a lingering moment, stunned. The inside was covered in framed pieces of artwork. Some happy, some sad, some full of rage; there was a wide, beautiful range. He watched the younger customer approach the desk to be received by a brunette man with a couple streaks of gray, barely visible behind the counter as he was hunched over his computer, typing away. He looked up just briefly, long enough to see the teen and Stan. His bright blue eyes shot from Stan, down to the bouquet, then back to the presumed customer. “Uh, I’m here to make an appointment. I called about the memorial tattoo?” The man stared for some collection of seconds and sighed before rising from his seat, “Luh-Listen, I’m not cuh-cuh-comfortable putting dates on tuh-tattoos, eh-eh-especially- especially,” he paused, irritated by how much he was struggling to speak. “Duh-death dates, it’s nuh-not really huh-healthy to memorialize puh-people in that way. Druh-drags on the grief pruh-process, trust me.” The boy slumped his shoulders and sighed, “I guess I understand that. Would you still be able to do the part with the skull and fern?” “Of cuh-course! I’d luh-love too.” “Awesome.” “Luh-let’s meet next wuh-week to look over duh-designs, then I can book yuh-you for an uh-uh-appointment,” “That works! I’m available on…”

Stan zoned out, fighting full-on dissociation. He felt like he was prying into their conversation and the guilt was setting in. The man behind the desk definitely had a point, about the death date tattoos, that made sense. Though Stan couldn’t ever imagine putting that sort of thing on his body. Not that he didn’t want tattoos, he had considered it, but when it came to things like dates, it seemed almost taboo.

“Cuh-Can I help you, suh-sir? Are yuh-you okay?” Stan realized the kid ahead of him had stopped talking and quickly also realized that the man was now talking to him. The short punk nudged past him gently to exit. “Right, I’m sorry I was kinda zoned out, uhm,” he laughed awkwardly and stiffly walked up to the desk, setting down the bouquet before pointing to the left with his thumb, “Flower Delivery. From the shop next door.” “Oh! Thu-this is so nice- I wuh-wasn’t expecting guh-gifts. Yuh-you’re talking about Duh-Darling Arrangements, right?” “That’s right. My boss and I are the people who run it, you’ll see a lot of us.” He saw the man crack a grin, picking up the vase gently, “Tuh-these are beautiful, thuh-thank you. I luh-look forward to suh-seeing more of you! I’m Wuh-wuh-William, buh-but friends cuh-call me Buh-Bill.” 

Stan tapped his foot a couple times awkwardly, now able to see the small nametag that read ‘William Denbrough’ with the label ‘Owner | 7 years’ beneath it. He looked back up at the handsome man, yes, handsome was definitely a way to describe him. “Do I fall in the friends category? I’m Stanley, you can call me Stan.” “Yuh-you do now! It’s nuh-nice to meet you Stuh-Stan,” he chimed, drumming his finger on the countertop a couple times and looking at the schedule book that was hefted onto the edge. 

“Muh-man, this is the fuh-first day since uh-opening I’ve guh-got time for luh-lunch. What’s guh-good around here?” “Oh,” Stan started, blinking a couple times before dragging his eyes, with a surprising amount of difficulty, off of the artist. “I’m about to walk over to the sandwich shop two blocks down. It’s pretty good, Sammy’s?” “A suh-sandwich duh-does sound pretty good… Duh-do you mind if I juh-join you?” Stan flushed, pushing a stray hair out of his face, “Of course not, feel free.”

The slightly taller man scrambled about excitedly, grabbing up his denim jacket and pulling it over his shoulder. The florist chuckled to himself and held the door open, a ring from a bell overhead, he hadn’t noticed it before. “Thuh-thank you! Oh, and-” Bill paused, one foot out of the doorframe, their faces were inches apart. He reached up, tapping the center of the flower tucked behind Stan’s ear, “Nuh-nice daisy.” “...Thanks, Bill,” Stan beamed a grin back at him. 

Stan didn’t know if Bill was straight, but the interaction certainly seemed to suggest otherwise. Either way, he knew one thing: once Sandy knew about this guy, he wouldn’t hear the end of it.


	2. A Broken Window

Stanley took some napkins from the dispenser taking a second to straighten up each one and fold it into its crease. Surely 6 napkins would be adequate for the two of them. Bill was still ordering, or rather thinking about his order. The tattooist seemed to be chronically indecisive, as he had see-sawed between 3 different meal options before even arriving at the front of the line beside Stan, and even then he hadn’t met a conclusion. The florist could never be so indecisive, he always decided before he even entered the line. He looked back to the napkins and set 3 on the opposite side of him, mirroring the placement for his own napkins, then straightened the salt and pepper shakers. His phone buzzed, so he fished it out of his pocket. 1 Unread Message from Pat. 2, no, 3. She was still typing.

 **Pat:** Stan? - _12:14pm_

 **Pat:** Listen, so don’t be mad but the kitchen window MAY no longer have glass in the pane - _12:14pm_

 **Pat:** ….Anyways how's work? - _12:15pm_

Stan bit the inside of his cheek and turned off his phone, setting it face-down on the table. Patricia Blum, his no-so-dear at the moment friend and begrudging roommate, always knew how to make good days change to stressful in a matter of seconds. It was her hidden talent, he was sure of it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled sharply.

“Stan? Yuh-you okay?” Stan felt a hand pat his shoulder gently. “Uhm,” the florist swallowed awkwardly, forcing a laugh, “Yeah, my roommate just broke one of our windows is all.” Bill blinked, somewhat startled by the news and pursed his lips into a thoughtful, quiet line. “I’m pruh-pretty good at ruh-repairing windows, if yuh-you need muh-my help. Always huh-have been, muh-ma said it’s cause I bruh-broke one too muh-many when I wuh-was a teen. I duh-don’t remember thuh-that though.” The florist smiled warmly, his face feeling fuzzy from the thought of Bill visiting his apartment, “I may take you up on that, when are you free?” “Duh-depends on the day, buh-but I shu-should be off wuh-work by five muh-most days this wuh-week.” Stan nodded quietly, already mulling ideas over in his head. How could he get Pat out of the apartment, or would he have to just beg her to behave? “I’ll text my roommate.” 

An awkward teenager in an apron shuffles over to their table, dropping off both of their meals with a quiet “enjoy.” Both men nod in response, Stan gives a small wave. 

**Stan:** I know someone who can help fix it but you have got to behave if you want his help - _12:28pm_

He turned off his phone's screen display and set it down, starting to eat. "So, yuh-your roommate, what's huh-he like?" Bill asked after an uncomfortable, awkwardly prolonged silence. "She, you mean," Stan responded, which visibly took Bill off guard for some reason. "She's a friend from college, she's currently a therapist. Though she excels best at pissing me off, rather than helping me any." His new friend chuckled quietly, crossing his arms and leaning back, relaxed, "She suh-seems fun." The florist laughed quietly and nodded, "Sometimes she is, I can give her that much." Buzz. 

**Pat:** You know people? This is news to me. - _12:34pm_  
**_Pat is typing…_**

Stan rolled his eyes and turned off the phone, this time shoving it into his pocket. He’d deal with Patricia at a later time. “So, Bill, how long have you been doing tattoos?” the florist inquired, clearing his throat. The brunette looked up midbite, holding up a finger and covering his mouth with the other hand, chewing. He swallowed and moved to point at his name tag, which Stan had read earlier, “Suh-Seven years.” “Oh, right,” he said looking at the nametag, mildly embarrassed, “Seven, that’s a lot, you must enjoy it then.” 

“I duh-do! Art is a muh-massive outline fuh-for me, I knew I’d duh-do something with ah-art or ruh-writing when I was yuh-younger.” “You write too?” Bill laughed awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking away, “Suh-sometimes, nothing tuh-too good. Uh-only have tuh-two things published ruh-right now.” “Published?” Stan echoed, bordering on incredulous, “What do you write?” “Wuh-well, horror is muh-my favorite, buh-but I’m pluh-playing around wuh-with a teen dystopian cuh-concept right now tuh-too.” 

That was also surprising, not the dystopian part, but the horror, Bill didn’t quite look like a horror writer. When Stan thought of a horror writer he thought of decrepit old men with thin, boney features and glasses, graying hair, overdressed, a crooked smile that really screamed: ‘I love writing about traumatized children and cocaine.’ Bill looked nothing like that. His new friend looked more like a stressed out dog with a perpetual scowl unless he was actively withholding it. A bulldog maybe. 

“Well, what have you gotten published so far?” Stan said, folding his hands onto his lap. “Bluh-Black Rapids and The Attic Ruh-room. Bluh-Black Ruh-Rapids is duh-doing pretty guh-good, but it’s muh-my least favorite of the tuh-two.” “Black Rapids? I think I’ve heard of that one! My roommate just finished it.” Bill perked up, lowering the hand that was holding a fry, “Wuh-what did she think?” 

“She uh,” Stan thought about the night Pat finished the book. She had been obsessing over it for almost two weeks at that point, but the ending hit the hardest. She cried for a couple minutes before getting riled up, shouting to herself and Stanley about how the ending was unnecessarily grotesque, that the author simply killed the characters for the fun of it. “She loved it, she was really into it, talked about it for a while.”

The author grinned pridefully, returning to eating his fries, “I’m gluh-glad. I truh-try to make the buh-books as imuh-immersive as possible.” “It was definitely immersive, I can say that much,” the florist responded with a chuckle. Pat was going to lose her mind on this poor guy, if they met during the window repair. He’d really have to keep her on her best behavior, which was much easier said than done. “When do you get off today?” he asked, crossing his ankle over his knee. “Oh, luh-let’s see,” Bill hastily wiped his fingers on his flannel, making Stan twitch and shudder with annoyance. The tattooist fished out his phone and navigated himself into the calendar app, humming quietly, “I’m done aruh-round 4:35 tuh-today.” “Would you be willing to come help out with my window around 6? I’ll provide dinner and pay you.” “Nuh-no need for puh-pay! I uh-offered, and I cuh-could order muh-myself something there’s no need to get me duh-dinner-” “I insist that I atleast cook for you,” Stan said firmly, rolling his eyes. The other sighed in resignation and nodded, “Uh-okay, here, puh-put your nuh-number in so I cuh-can get the address fruh-from you later.” The florist took the phone and smiled, adding himself as a contact, “We’ll probably get there around the same time, my roommate picks me up from work around 5:40.” “Alright, suh-sounds like a pluh-plan!” He said, setting back down his phone to finish the scraps of food that remained. 

“I’m just going to apologize in advance, about Pat.”  
“Yuh-your roommate? I’m shu-sure we’ll get along gruh-great! Duh-don’t worry about it!”


End file.
